I read this and imagined it contained in a small pocket-sized book, and myself quite the intellectual, amused by quaint fictions. I sought to divine from the tale of hedonism and grandeur exactly the line where one crosses over from glory into excess. A selfish goal, to be sure.
I watched the movie shortly after reading the book. I enjoyed the adaptation greatly. I thought it did well in capturing the scale of the parties implied in the novel. I was not a huge fan of the narration. I enjoyed that they threw out any historical pretense and embraced a radically modern soundtrack.
It is a young man’s interpretation of this book that defines it as a source of inspiration, but I can’t help myself. I want to throw out my arms and present to an audience the splendor and spectacle of my life and tell them they can’t find anything quite like it anywhere else in the world. Now ideally, I would be able to do as such without Gatsby’s failings. I don’t think a warning about spoilers is required some hundred years after publication: the book doesn’t end well for Gatsby. Is it wrong to say this is due to his refusal to take the past as immutable? His dissatisfaction with only controlling the future? These seem remarkably solvable issues. I am surely missing many others.
For now, at least, I will try and fold what showmanship and generosity I can from Gatsby into my own life. To give favors and gifts to those who wash up on my shores. To unabashedly enjoy existence. To fake it, as they say, until you make it.
I dove into the world of Gatsby at the recommendation of Jack and his family. My thanks go out to you.